


Queen Buttercup

by BasicCourtesy



Category: Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - Simon Morgenstern
Genre: At least Buttercup thinks so, BAMF Buttercup, BAMF Westley, Character Death, F/M, Westley doesn't show up for a while, very inconsistent updates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicCourtesy/pseuds/BasicCourtesy
Summary: An engagement does not make someone a princess. A people to follow you does. Princess Buttercup earned her title and her love....I always felt like Buttercup was sort of useless, but with so much potential. So here she is a Queen.
Relationships: Buttercup/Westley (Princess Bride)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. News from the High Seas

Westley is dead.

Buttercup heard the news when she was in town, asking at the tavern for letters addressed to her. She had known something was wrong when she walked down the street and whispers followed her, but she ignored the people gossiping behind splayed palms. She always ignored them, and on the rare occasion she couldn’t, Westley’s letters were enough to endure the gossiping hoards.

But Westley is dead.

The owner of the tavern was the one who told her, he pulled her aside and shared the story that everyone in town knew. Buttercup stopped listening after the man had said the word, “Your Westley is dead,” but he held her long enough that portions of the story had filtered through her brain. Westley’s ship had been attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts, a monstrous pirate known for leaving no survivors, and Westley was no exception.

Buttercup said little in response. What seemed like the whole town stared as Buttercup took in the news that her true love was dead, thanked the barkeep for telling her, and walked away.

Westley is dead.

Buttercup entered her home. She started her daily routine. The one that typically began after she finished devouring the words she received from her true love but was forced to start sooner for a lack of correspondence (because Westley is dead). She looked at the pail that hung in the window, “Farm Boy, hand me that pail.”

No response came. No response had come for months of course, no one was left to respond since Westley had left to chase his fortune but Buttercup continued to ask. It was a habit she did not try to break because she wanted it to be there when Westley returned (but Westley is dead).

Tears slipped down her face to soak into the collar of her dress. Buttercup stood there in silence, her eyes wide in horror. She stared out the window as if under the belief that if she could just stare long enough, she would see Westley rounding the hill and coming home. But he wasn’t coming home.

Westley is dead.

Westley would never be coming home again. No more “as you wish” I love yous to buoy her up, even when she didn’t deserve it. No more sly, “I know more than you do” smiles to drive her insane. No one to share her beloved horse rides with. No one to split the chores with, or rather to make do the chores while she watched. No more quiet evenings watching the sunset. No more peaceful mornings filled with banter and fights. No more Westley because Westley is dead.

The realization hit Buttercup hard. She thought she was standing but the dirt clenched between her fingers indicated otherwise. Her chest burned and she might not have been breathing but everything else was so numb that she really couldn’t tell (Westley is dead). Her eyes might have been opened but she could see nothing. And her ribs might have been cracked, but wouldn’t there have been blood?

Nothing mattered because Westley is dead.

Westley is dead and Buttercup wished he had taken her with him.


	2. Learning Something New

Buttercup couldn’t stay in that house any longer. Every rustle of fabric made her think Westley was bustling his way through pointless chores. Every shadow made her turn, expecting to see Westley walk through the door.

Every corner of the house was drenched in memories she shared with Westley and it was killing her. She needed a change.

So, she stripped the house. There wasn’t much she could do by herself (Westley is dead) but she did what she could. She threw out the linens and bought new ones that she would never lay on with Westley. She hired more workers to harvest the fruits from the orchard so she didn’t have to smell the lingering scent of apples on her skin that she used to love when it clung to Westley. She hung decorations from the windows to catch the light and drag her attention away from the doorway that would never be filled (Westley is dead).

And then she reordered the house, pushing and pulling furniture so the interior of the home she built with the man she was going to spend her life with was all but unrecognizable; but under the thin mattress she slept on with Westley she found an equally thin notepad.

Buttercup peered at the papers and gasped. There, in charcoal, were images capturing their life together. Pictures of the sunset over their favorite hill. Pictures of their horses, standing in wait for the lovers to take their daily ride. Pictures of her. And pictures of her. And pictures of her.

She stared down at the images of life in still and thought, ‘I didn’t know Westley could draw.’

Buttercup tried to think of when he could have done these. Maybe in the morning when she was ordering workers around the farm. Or maybe in the afternoons when she took her afternoon ride on her horse. She didn’t know when he drew the pictures. She didn’t know how he knew how to draw. She didn’t even know how he bought the materials.

Did she know anything about Westley?

She knew he loved her and she knew how he looked when he was utterly content with the world. She knew the tone in his voice when he was irritated with her and she knew he loved to eat her homemade apple pie. But she didn’t know he liked to draw. She didn’t know how many children he would have wanted with her. She didn’t know if he wanted to stay on the farm after making his fortune on the seas or if he would have wanted to move somewhere grander.

She didn’t even know his favorite fucking color.

Why did Westley ever want to marry her? What kind of horrible person doesn’t know basic facts about the love of their life? Sure, she loved him beyond what she thought a single person was capable of, but what is that worth? It obviously wasn’t enough or Westley would have stayed instead of running away the first chance he had (Westley is dead because she wasn’t enough).

She couldn’t do this. Buttercup was a horrible person and the only one who would ever think otherwise is dead and he didn’t deserve to not be alive.


	3. Gossip Travels Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buttercup looks around her

She walked through town. She didn’t have any place to go (Westley is dead) but the silence at home made it hard for her to breathe. So, she walked aimlessly among the small crowd.

People whispered as she passed; normally she would ignore it. They have never repeated anything they have said behind her back to her face, and she didn’t see the point of expending effort to listen in on their opinions.

But she also didn’t expend any effort to find out what Westley’s favorite time of day was; she had missed her chance to learn important details about him. Westley had deserved so much better.

So, she listened to the conversations happening behind her as she walked past.

“Did you see? When Dominic, at the tavern, told her that her fiancé had died she didn’t even cry.”

“I heard she thanked him for telling her!” Gasps rang out at the news.

“No! She’s thankful?” They just kept talking. Buttercup wasn’t sure what they were talking about. She only vaguely recalled the conversation that the gossipers were referencing. She doesn’t like thinking about what she had heard (Westley is dead) and since she had learned that Westley would never come home days had become a blur.

“I heard from Bill up by her farm that she has been completely remaking the place.”

“Guess she’s gussying up for the next man already, eh?”

“She does look as if she has put extra effort into her looks lately.”

Buttercup had lost weight, that was true, but she would not say that it was an attractive look. Her eyes contained a hollowness that was not present before, her cheekbones sharp with hunger, and her form willowy and fragile with lack of activity. She hadn’t done anything, anything at all, since getting rid of almost everything that reminded her of Westley. She wasn’t sleeping. Leaving the house was getting harder and harder. She couldn’t eat. She had even used a large sum of what was typically her budget for food to hire the workers for the farm and buy materials for her home makeover. She wasn’t going to be eating anyway, so why buy food she was going to throw away?

In short, Buttercup did not consider herself to be looking particularly beautiful, but why argue? She would not attempt to sway their positions; she could only make herself go so far as to listen.

However, one thing showed itself as a certainty. She could not stay in this town. She could no longer live in that farmhouse.

Westley was dead, but she was not and Westley would never forgive her if she allowed herself to follow him without a fight.

…

Buttercup quickly found a young couple to live the life in her house that she had dreamed of; the appearance and new amenities enticing renters as soon as word spread, and Buttercup vanished from the village as soon as she could.

She left on her beloved horse before dawn on the day the new occupants were set to arrive, bringing with her a small pack (only big enough for the days' meals, coins to last her several days, and Westley’s drawings bundled carefully in a scarf) and the horse Westley had raised and loved tied to her horse’s bridle. Buttercup left her home and her prison with no plans and a vague idea of being anywhere but where Westley’s ghost was (Westley is dead).

…

The outskirts of Florin City grew in her gaze before noon became a distant idea, but the city itself was everything that the town she left behind was not. Buttercup fought with the overflow of people rushing through every thread of the city and had difficulty maneuvering three cumbersome bodies in the unfamiliar ebb.

“Excuse me, can you point me towards an inn and stable?” She approached the first capable-looking person standing still enough for her to initiate a conversation.

“I sure can. Ya go down this street and ya take a left at the baker’s then another left at the butcher’s and finally two quick rights at Mitty’s and there’s the finest and most comfortable inn with a place for your nice horses.”

Finally, familiar with some aspects of city life, incomprehensible instructions by locals, Buttercup approached the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is planned out, but I have soooo much trouble connecting specific scenes so sorry in advance for the infrequent updates

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this (at least the first bits) forever ago and I think about it a lot. Hopefully actually posting it will motivate me to finish it


End file.
